Tristan and Isolde.
Romeo and Juliet.
Antony and Cleopatra.
Ross and Rachel.
Jim and Pam.
I am the sort of creature who is stirred in the most abysmal depths of my being by the prospect of romantic love, or greater still, romantic love that cannot be. If you, too, are moved by such things, then perhaps you quivered with anxiety cum elation last night as a season of magnificently-crafted and excruciating-but-altogether-perfect longing came crashing to a climax in Jim's proclamation of love for Pam in the finale of "The Office." Perhaps you've experienced it yourself: the furtive glances, the reckless laughter, the mingling pheromones -- ah, the thrilling ache of pining for someone. I'm not sure I can think of anything else thats all-at-once so exhilarating and mortifying. As Jim and Pam embraced in that ubiquitously longed-for kiss, I imagined girls squealing and clutching their couch cushions as if goofy-dreamy Jim had uttered those heart-stopping words to them and not Pam. I pictured men everywhere quietly swelling with pride for the good guy. For the brave guy. Pride for the courage and daring that all men must conjure in order to gain one of life's greatest prizes. Love.
So today I will celebrate the idea of love. I will vicariously swoon. I will become theoretically enraptured. I will adore in abstract. And fervently anticipate that life will imitate art. After all, who said a romantic must be hopeless?
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